A Study in Subtext
by Sociopath in the TARDIS
Summary: Might change the title in the future because this one has probably been used. Sherlock kisses John while on a case and everything goes down from there.Not sure where I'm going with it but it's sure to be a steady build up of their relationship ABANDONED
1. Kissogram for John Watson!

**Oh deary me, a fanfiction. I had another account but I feel it's best if I post this one separately from that one (so many unfinished things). Think I'll leave this account for things that I'm sure I'll actually finish, which should be a joyful escapade I'm sure!**

**I'll try and make each chapter around this long and I'll attempt to update at least once a week - if not, you can punch me virtually in the face and make sure I update (sometimes it's good to have a little bit of violent motivation!).**

**_Pairing_: Johnlock**

**_Disclaimer_: Characters from BBC Sherlock don't belong to me (alas).**

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><p><em>4<em>_th__ March_

**Kissogram for John Watson!**

Now, I know the title seems stupid but that's partly what it feels like it was now that I've had a bit to go over it. Today, my best friend, Sherlock Holmes, kissed me. I'll just let that sink in before I explain.

We were in the middle of a case and, as usual, Sherlock was looking for leads as we'd hit a bit of a dead end concerning who would or could have done what with the crime (that and I imagine he was just a tad rusty on the whole deduction malarkey considering it'd been about two weeks since we've had so much as a mention of a case). It was then that it hit me, a little push in the back of my head and so...I voiced my thoughts out loud (which is often seen as a generally bad decision on my part).

"What if the woman wasn't actually at the theatre that night?" I queried as I turned to look at Sherlock, one eyebrow rising as I did so, "Then her alibi wouldn't be as sound as it seems to be."

With that, Sherlock grinned and turned to me, both hands pushing firmly against my cheeks as the grin spread wider yet.

"Oh, John!" he exclaimed and I could have sworn his eyes shone as he did so, "John you are a genius!"

And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Sherlock bent down and pressed his lips full to mine in a firm and resounding kiss that made a slight smacking noise when he pulled back. He then proceeded to pat my cheeks before he bounded off – that stupid coat swaying behind him as he ran – and hopped over a fence. Obviously I followed because I'm John Hamish Watson, loyal 'pet' and companion.

Either way, the whole escapade ended up in me being smacked around the head with a pipe and being rendered with a concussion, which isn't the most pleasant of things, as I've had privy to know from past experiences – oh the things that happen in the army. I'll make sure to write the case up in full by the end of this week but this blog entry isn't about that so I'm not going to post too much about it on here; this blog is for what the blog's original purpose was – not about cases but about personal things. I might not even actually post this as an actual entry but I think it's good to write it down, that's what Emma said to me anyway.

So, I was lying on my bed with a concussion, and I came through to the pleasant sight of Sherlock's face right in front of mine. And by pleasant I hope you all know that I actually mean it was rather horrifying and I was really quite scared. Alas, dear Sherlock – seemingly upon seeing me wake up – retired back to the living room in order to add to the dint he's been making in the sofa ever since we moved in (I'm rather sure that when he says he's thinking, he's actually waiting for me to turn my back so he can sneak a smoke while I'm not looking). He really is quite lazy.

Not too sure if the part where we had sex Mrs Hudson's linen cupboard was part of the concussion or actually real. Sort of hope it was part of the concussion – Mrs H would kill us if we got her linens dirty, honestly. Not sure what I'd do if it were real though. Maybe cry and hide forever. Yes, that seems appropriate.

Okay, that's as far as this blog entry will go. Have a nice day.

**17 comments**

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><p>OMG. John, I'm not sure we really needed to know that last part tmi.<p>

**Harry Watson** 4th March 11:23

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><p>What a freak.<p>

**Sally Donovan** 4th March 11:24

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><p>I always knew you guys would hit it off!<p>

**Mike Stamford** 4th March 11:25

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><p>It's a shame he was merely imagining it then, Mike – I can't possibly imagine how that may affect your ego. As for you John, I can only begin to imagine what possessed you to post this...<p>

**Sherlock Holmes **4th March 11:27

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><p>you're such a brilliant couple even if john is a bit dim<p>

**theimprobableone** 4th March 11:30

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><p>Oh so it's not real? Shame.<p>

**Bill Murray** 4th March 11:31

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><p>I think I'm too embarrassed to say anything. I'll just blame it on the concussion.<p>

**John Watson **4th March 11:34

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><p>I always did wonder how Sherlock knew so much about people being gay...<p>

**Molly Hooper** 4th March 11:36

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><p>LOL!<p>

**Jacob Sowersby** 4th March 11:37

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><p>I'm not gay; I'm married to my work.<p>

**Sherlock Holmes** 4th March 11:39

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><p>Your work could be male.<p>

**Harry Watson** 4th March 11:41

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><p>If you're speaking in a metaphorical sense then no, no my work could not be male for it's not a person. My work would be androgynous and my work and I would participate in a sexless marriage as we do now, thank you very much on all of your inputs.<p>

**Sherlock Holmes** 4th March 11:43

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><p>I have absolutely no idea what to say to any of this...<p>

**John Watson** 4th March 11:45

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><p>Oh, dear John. You should stay away from Sherlock Holmes, he's mine, shh. You've rather shown your hand, Doctor, but pets should never get too close to their owners.<p>

**Anonymous** 4th March 11:50

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><p>For goodness sake, I'm not a pet – believe it or not – and I'm not gay, for anyone who actually cares.<p>

**John Watson** 4th March 11:53

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><p>and yet you fantasised about having sex with your male flatmate totally not gay<p>

**theimprobableone** 4th March 11:55

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><p>That's it, comments are closed.<p>

**John Watson** 4th March 11:57

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><p>John runs his hands down his face before snapping his laptop shut and promising himself that he'll learn how to delete posts on his blog before the day is out in order to stop any embarrassment like he'd just endured in the future. Sitting up from his bed and rubbing his eyes as he waits for himself to get a grasp on the real world, he pushes his laptop to one side and wonders if he'd be able to gather the strength to face Sherlock after their little online domestic. Obviously he didn't have sex with Sherlock, oh he was such an idiot, he'll never have sex with Sherlock – not that he particularly wants to anyway – and he'd very much like to know how his own mind came up with such a scenario in its bamboozled condition.<p>

He sucks in a breath and hopes like he's never hoped before that the Consulting Detective isn't in the kitchen because dear God, he needs a cup of tea. Pushing himself to his feet, he waits a few seconds for the world to stop spinning around him as he gives a little wince towards the new spout of pain that has just blossomed throughout his head. A sigh pushes itself past his lips and he heads down the stairs, peeking into the kitchen to check his flatmate isn't there and, in turn, thanking God when it is, in fact, empty (save for a few experiments scattered across the kitchen countertops).

Shoving two slices of bread into the toaster and flicking the kettle on, John leans against the kitchen countertop and eyes up the experiments placed on the table in the centre of the room. This causes him to think about what the hell actually went through Sherlock's mind when he thought up his so called 'experiments' – which he's sure isn't the right name for them; maybe 'death traps' would be more fitting. The kettle finishes boiling and the toaster flicks up slightly burnt bread shortly afterwards while he is pouring water over a teabag that he'd put in a mug. He spreads jam over each of the slices and heads over to his desk, placing the plate and the mug down on it before scampering upstairs to retrieve his laptop – might as well get the case typed up now.

As he hops down the stairs, laptop in hand, he almost chokes upon entering the room because Sherlock's there drinking his tea.

Evidently, Sherlock is also shocked because he practically spit takes, spluttering out the tea before he swallows it and places it down on the table like he hadn't just been drinking from John's mug. John pushes a breath out from his lungs and shakes his head as he strolls across to the table and places the laptop on the desk with a dull thud.

"Go make me another one if you're so adamant on drinking mine," John says, his tone joking even though he's stupidly nervous considering it was only a hallucination.

Sherlock makes a disgruntled and non-committal noise as he stalks into the kitchen, all long limps and mysterious cheek bones, while John pushes the lid of his laptop open and logs into his account with slow clacking of the keyboard keys. He would snort at the new wallpaper that Sherlock has deem suitable to assign him with if it wasn't so...pink. He changes his password for at least the fortieth time that week alone (he's starting to learn that there's no point in changing it but he cherishes those little moments of privacy he has when Sherlock is stumped for a few days when he happens to think up an especially good one). There's the soft clink as the mug of tea is placed next to his laptop.

"I read your latest blog update," Sherlock begins but John cuts him off before he can go much further than that.

"Don't. Just...don't," the blogger says, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes as he draws in a shaky breath, "I had a concussion; didn't know what I was thinking. Sorry."

He is, he will admit, rather taken aback when Sherlock lets out a noise not dissimilar to a snort. Looking up, he's met with the sight of Sherlock cupping his ex-mug of tea in his hands in a way that seems gentle, a soft smirk lining his lips as he sips. His flatmate parts his lips away from the mug and speaks.

"There's no need to apologise; in case you've not noticed, I'm not all too embarrassed," a soft baritone chuckle leaves his mouth before he sips the tea again, "Believe it or not, John, when one gets used to being called names one learns to be distant towards things that they may possibly get embarrassed or mocked over."

John catches himself before he ends up grinning at his best friend (though Sherlock may not think him the same, he'd like to at least try to believe the man thought of him as some form of 'friend'). He leans back into his chair, briefly sipping his own tea before he starts to work on typing up the case which ends in him silently cursing his inability to understand how the stupid QWERTY layout of the keyboard actually works – John can't understand why the letters aren't in order no matter how many times Sherlock explains it to him and has, because of that reasoning, been deemed a lost cause in regards to technological appliances such as laptops, phones and the like.

"'Meticulous' has a 'u' in it, John," Sherlock says and John sighs because he's wondering if it's going to be one of those days that Sherlock spends annoying him about his grammar and spelling because he doesn't have a case.

As much as he hates it, it is one of those days. Sherlock stays leant and reading over John's shoulder for a while until it hits the hour mark – then he pulls up a chair. John pulls a breath in through his nose and soldiers on, albeit tapping up words slowly but, nevertheless, he gets it done. By the time he's finished the rather short account of the case (parts being deleted here and there) the whole thing has taken around three hours to type up and John is starting to get just a tad worried because he'd missed an opportunity to put in a semi-colon in the last paragraph and his flatmate hasn't even tensed because of it.

Then he becomes aware of the slight weight pressed against the back of his shoulder and gathers that Sherlock has probably fallen asleep against him. He also gathers that the consulting detective probably needs it more than he looks like he does most of the time. With a little wriggle, he moves so that he's facing Sherlock a little more.

"Sherlock, wake up, I need to go make tea," he says they words softly, parts drawn out and other parts cooed. When Sherlock doesn't shift, he tries again and adds a soft roll of his shoulder to the mix, "Sherlock, come on, wake up."

The genius who has, apparently, chosen his shoulder as the perfect pillow makes a soft murmuring sound before proceeding to press his face closer against the fabric of John's shirt. John sighs and wonders if he's been doing it a bit too much lately. After a moment of contemplation, he moves so that the arm of the shoulder that Sherlock is resting against slips under him before he stands. He pulls Sherlock's arm over both of his shoulders as he bends down and then straightens up again slightly, the other emitting small protests that sound a little like disgruntled squeaks coming from a harassed kitten. Sherlock's body is dumped against the plush fabric of the sofa.

"Coat," a quiet mumble comes from the body.

"Come again?" John raises an eyebrow at the remark.

"Coat, it's cold and there are no blankets," Sherlock says and doesn't even shift to look up at John, just burying his face more into the sofa cushion beneath him.

"You want to use your coat instead of a blanket?" comes the question.

"Warmer," comes the explanation.

John merely rolls his eyes and moves over to the door to grab his flatmate's coat, draping it over the worryingly slim frame curled up on the sofa. He turns the collar up so that it just barely brushes against Sherlock's cheeks and accepts a quietly mumbled 'thank you' in return for his deeds, an equally quiet 'no problem' parting ways from his mouth in return. A breath catches in his throat and he's able to act like it didn't happen as he pushes away the thought that he might possibly want to run his fingers through his flat mate's hair because he's _not gay_.

It ends in him calling Sarah up and asking her out for a drink – just to remind his sexuality that it likes boobs, not cock – but she doesn't accept his offer (which he suspects is down to a certain concussion) and he has to settle for calling up several people to replace her because he needs to get out. Eventually, Lestrade accepts his offer (fifth time lucky) which completely contradicts his original intentions but at least it's something. They meet at the usual dingy pub and sit across from each other in a booth. Greg looks tired, John feels it.

"Read your latest blog entry," the Detective Inspector smirks in a way that shows he's joking and leaves John feeling a little patronised.

"Had a concussion, you know that part then," John says, lips curling upwards a little as he sips his pint.

"You know what they say about hallucinations?" Greg asks and then continues when John raises an eyebrow in question, "They say it's something like – you know, the subconscious reaching out or something; all that emotions into dreams kind of thing."

John manages to catch himself before he snorts lager out of his nose, "I'm not gay, Greg."

"Never sad you were, John," a grin passes over Lestrade's lips and he takes a gulp from the glass, "But you know what they call saying 'I'm not gay' nearly every time it gets implied?"

"Don't – Greg, don't," John manages to force out because he knows what's going to be said, "Don't go all psychology on me because that stuff is pretty much witchcraft."

"They call it _denial_," is the sing song melody of words that makes John bury his face in his arms on the table.

"I knew I should have begged," he groans and manages to lift his face up again, "Can I just get piss drunk and forget I ever had a blog?"

Lestrade laughs and leans back in his chair, "I hope you do realise that most of the station have read that entry. They all think you're pretty much together now – not that a lot of them didn't think that before but, you know. You seem pretty...smitten with him, John."

And it's at that moment that John realises he should have learnt how to delete entries a lot sooner than he planned to. The only word that leaves his mouth is a soft 'fuck' that gets drawn out as his face makes its way back to the comforting embrace of his arms upon the table. Greg leans over and pats his head in a way that makes him feel like a dog; he's vaguely surprised when the Detective Inspector doesn't scratch behind his ears.

They drop the conversation of his sexuality and end up, by John's suggestion, getting absolutely smashed in a way that they're definitely too old for. Greg pushes John into a taxi before catching his own and, by the time John gets back to Baker Street, he's about ready to pass out. He throws too much money at the cabbie and fumbles in his pockets for his house key until he finds it and begins a war with the door lock. It takes him about twenty minutes to actually enter the flat and when he does he forgets Sherlock's on the couch and collapses on top of him.

His face collides with the floor a brief few seconds later when the Consulting Detective shoves the Blogger out of his nest (and off his far too pricey coat).

"Your drunk," comes the sharp, baritone statement of the obvious as Sherlock sits up and nudges John with his foot, to which he barely gets a soft groan in return, "Honestly John; if I have to baby you then I'm going to be very unimpressed. I highly doubt you're even supposed to get drunk when you have a concussion as it can't be very healthy."

Alas, John is too busy rubbing his cheek against the rug to listen to Sherlock's little lecture. He is, however, surprised when lanky arms reach around him and pull him upwards onto the sofa.

"You need to sleep it off though there's no question in the matter that you're going to have a rather bad headache come morning," Sherlock says, words quick and low and John can barely understand what has been said before a coat is draped over him and his eyes are closing, "Now get to sleep and, when you wake up, you'll hopefully feel very honoured for what I just did."

So John does as he's told and falls asleep under the warm embrace of thick and not too heavy fabric. And, as promised, he wakes up in the morning with a pounding headache that makes him groan as soon as he opens his eyes, along with a text from Lestrade telling him that they're not going out drinking together for a least a month. He lays back into the couch with a soft chuckle as he pulls Sherlock's coat tighter around himself and tries to fall back asleep with the persisting pounding in his head.


	2. The Case of the Twin Killers

**Aha! This is early because I just finished it and SORRY for any mistakes because I'm tired and I'm posting this now so I don't forget to on Monday.**

**Lots of exams after Friday next week so do forgive me if Chapters become a little haphazardly updated. Also sorry for in the last chapter I wrote 'Your drunk' instead of 'You're drunk' which is UNFORGIVEABLE.**

**Okay, on with the show. Sorry for the sad.**

**_Pairing: _Johnlock**

**_Disclaimer: _Characters are still not mine.**

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><p><em>5<em>_th__ March_

**The Case of the Twin Killers**

Here I am, as promised, typing up the case and I hope we can put the previous blog entry behind us and pretend it never happened because I can't figure out how to delete entries on my own site, which is rather sad. Sorry this is being posted a little late on during the day; went out last night with a friend and got just a little tipsy in the process. I really should learn my age but there you go. On with the case!

So, it all started when Sherlock and I were propositioned by a blonde and slightly attractive woman who was concerned about the death of her father who had died about a few days ago of 'natural causes'. Sherlock took the case and the next day I was quickly whisked away with him to check around the crime scene and analyse the body of the father in question – whom was being kept there in a coffin until the funeral the next day where he was to be buried in the garden that he'd apparently loved so much.

While Sherlock was buzzing around the crime scene he told me to go check the body of the man and I concluded that, yes, it was possible that he could have died of natural causes but that it would have been strange as he seemed to be perfectly healthy. Then Sherlock told me that it could have been poison and proceeded to ask the woman that had asked us to do the case if there had been anyone in the house other than her or her father. She told us that there had been a small book club at the beginning of the week which left room for the opportunity for him to be murdered.

Sherlock and I set to tracking down all of the people who had attended to book club and talk to each of them. They were a pretty boring lot, consisting of a forty something male a bit taller than myself, another younger man who looked like he was probably still in University (the poor sod) and three other females, one of which was to be related to the murder. After talking to them and finding that they all had rather sturdy alibis, we hit a brick wall.

That was when I suggested that one of the women could have not been at the theatre and we ran after her as she had left the building but five minutes before. We soon found out that it wasn't actually her, but her twin sister who had killed the father of the woman who had given us a case which actually came as a bit of a surprise to me though I suspected that Sherlock had anticipated such an outcome.

That was around the time where I got smacked around the back of the head with a metal pole so I'm not sure what went on, though Sherlock has filled me in on quite a bit of what happened. He had grappled with the two girls and called our favourite DI and had them locked up to go to jail or whatnot. It turns out that instead of what we had initially thought had happened which was that the lady had stuck around after the book club instead of going to the theatre, she'd got her sister in on the act and instead her sister had snuck in while the book club was on and replaced the father's vitamins with an almost undetectable poison (from the view of blood analysis and all that) that looked exactly the same as the vitamins he was taking.

It must have taken a lot to pull it off but since all of the people in the house were occupied in an entirely different part of the house, it was easy for the twin sister to sneak in and put poison on the father's pills. They wouldn't offer up a motive for what they did but Sherlock says it was because their mother was in a relationship with the man who was killed but he'd broken up with her which she'd then got depressed about I guess. It sounds pretty reasonable and Sherlock's hardly ever wrong so I think I can trust his analysis of the situation rather well.

That's about all that had happened, apparently – other than me being diagnosed with a mild concussion and Sherlock getting a twisted wrist (poor him) but there you go. I hope we can put silliness behind us concerning the last entry. Sherlock and I aren't gay for each other or anything, we're just close friends. At least I hope he thinks of me as a friend or something, surprised I've not scared him off already.

Goodbye and have a nice day! I'll get some of the other cases that I haven't typed up done while we haven't got any on, it can be a bit boring when there's nothing to do so I might as well.

**9 comments**

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><p>Freak. What kind of guy works out that some girls we revenging their mother from one look?<p>

**Sally Donovan** 5th March 15:04

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><p>Brilliant!<p>

**Jacob Sowersby** 5th March 15:05

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><p>are you sure youre not gay john because i still dont believe you<p>

**theimprobableone** 5th March 15:07

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><p>The kind of person that observes, Sally. The fact that you're bothering to comment on this just to pick on me tells me that your date with Anderson last night didn't go as expected. What happened? Did his wife come back? No, it's too soon for that because his wife is away for the weekend, so she called while you were 'scrubbing his floors' and ruined the mood. Such a shame.<p>

**Sherlock Holmes** 5th March 15:08

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><p>Sherlock, what have I said about seducing people on the internet?<p>

**John Watson** 5th March 15:09

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><p>Seducing?<p>

**Sherlock Holmes** 5th March 15:09

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><p>Deducing, you know what I mean.<p>

**John Watson** 5th March 15:10

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><p>You know what they call that John? They call it a 'Freudian slip'.<p>

**Greg Lestrade** 5th March 15:11

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><p>Disabling comments now so that this doesn't go as far as it did last time.<p>

**John Watson** 5th March 15:12

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><p>John sighs and snaps his laptop shut, wishing that the whole subject would just die down already instead of people bringing it all back up again. Sure, him and Sherlock are close but they're not gay for each other – John is actually rather sure that Sherlock isn't interested in anyone at all and never has been (Mycroft has long since convinced him that the Consulting Detective in actually a virgin so it's not hard to believe he might be asexual too). He's knocked out of his thoughts as there's the soft clink of a mug of tea being placed next to his laptop. Looking up from the place that his face seems to have found in the palm of his hands, he sees Sherlock looking down at him.<p>

"I brought you some tea," Sherlock says and John is prepared to bet his gun that Sherlock's actually worried about him.

"Thanks, and I'm fine by the way, you don't need to worry about me," he says as he cups his hands around the mug, flashing Sherlock a brief and small but still mostly fake smile as he sips the tea.

"You're bothered by people referring to us as a couple," Sherlock says and, while he's a brilliant detective, John is suddenly becoming aware that he's also brilliant at stating the blatantly obvious.

"I am," he says, running his fingers down the mug of tea as he places it on the desk in front of himself, "It's not exactly brilliant when someone has your sexuality in a muddle. I'm heterosexual and no one seems to believe me anymore because they think we're fucking each other. All because of some stupid hallucination and a blog entry I posted while I was concussed."

"We could start fucking if you wanted to," is the remark that makes John splutter tea all over the closed lid of his laptop. He looks up at Sherlock to find that the other man looks just a bit too serious.

"While I'm flattered, Sherlock, I really am," John coughs awkwardly as he runs the arm of his cardigan over the minor tea spillage on his laptop to clean it up, "There's three things wrong with that. One, I'm pretty sure I'm currently dating Sarah, though I'm not actually too sure if she considers us together or not. Two, I'm pretty sure your work wouldn't be all too happy about me fucking you," he sees Sherlock's lips quirk at that comment, "And three, I'm not gay."

"Hmm, Sarah's going to officially break up with you on the weekend so I think we can consider that reason gone," Sherlock hums, the words coming out in a smooth baritone and John knows better than to try and contradict Sherlock's deductions and to just accept them as they are.

"Fine, two reasons then," John rolls his eyes, sipping more of the tea now that he's sure it'll stay in his mouth.

"If we work by logic then you're actually, technically, my work," Sherlock stares at his feet and John can see that he's shifting his weight from foot to foot as though he's nervous.

"Care to explain?" John coaxes as the other goes silent.

"Well, since no one reads my blog and Lestrade doesn't always get fun cases that interest me, people contact me through your blog. Working from this we can say that my work comes from your blog and therefore your blog is my work. Are you following me?" Sherlock receives a nod and carries on, "Without you, your blog wouldn't run and thus we can gather that you are your blog. If you are your blog then that, in turn makes you my work, which also makes us—"

"Sherlock, we're not married," John actually giggles after he speaks the words and, although Sherlock looks a little withdrawn after he says it, the Detective's lips quirk upwards slightly and he looks back down at the floor again.

"No, I guess we aren't," he says, returning to shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"And there's still the last reason as to why we can't start shagging each other," John points out.

"Ah, yes, of course," Sherlock says, his lips quirking again before he turns away and heads to his bedroom.

John doesn't see him for the rest of the day.

In fact, John doesn't see him for the next few days and feels rather guilty for it. Looking back on the conversation he can gather that he probably didn't handle it in the best way he could have and he can see where he might have possibly hurt Sherlock's feelings; he blames it on the fact that it's easy to forget that Sherlock even has feelings some times. When Sherlock does emerge from his room at a time that John sees him, it's now been four days and it is, apparently, the first time that Sherlock has eaten since then because the Detective gets a sandwich and disappears back into his lair.

John starts to get even more worried when he doesn't see Sherlock again for another three days, taking it upon himself to venture towards his flatmate's bedroom and knock on the door to see what's happening. When he doesn't receive a reply at first, he knocks again, his worry spiking upwards to the point where if Sherlock doesn't answer him soon then he's going to invade his privacy (which he doesn't particularly want to do). He knocks for a third time and clutches the door handle before speaking up.

"Sherlock," he says, willing his voice to be steady yet slightly loud, "Sherlock, if you don't at least answer me then I'm going to come in."

After he's spoken there's a clatter of something that sounds like a mixture of metal and cloth and possibly a book or two before Sherlock pulls the door open a little and offers him a smile. John is starting to know that smile as fake rather than real; he sees both often enough.

"I'm fine," is all the Consulting Detective says before he closes the door again, blocking John out of his room and – to an extent – out of his life.

It gets to the point that John sees Sherlock briefly every couple of days – they don't hold proper conversations, they hardly speak and, seeing as they _still _haven't got a damn case yet, the only times that Sherlock comes out of his room is to get either tea or food. John feels as though he's sitting back and watching his best friend deteriorate before him because, from what he can see, every time he sees Sherlock he looks just that tiny bit sadder and John can't ignore the way it makes his heart twist painfully inside his chest.

Six days after John first knocked on Sherlock's bedroom door, he does it again except this time he does it more softly. He does it because he can't stand seeing Sherlock be so...sad. He's used to seeing his friend be bored and he's used to seeing his friend hit lows and he's used to seeing his friend surf highs but he is not used to seeing his friend be depressed and it's starting to seriously worry him. And it's more than likely his own fault, so that gives him more than a fair reason to try and see what is actually going on inside Sherlock's head.

He breathes in deeply, hand raising slowly and hesitating as he considers the consequences to his actions before he brings his fist down gently on the wood of the door in a neat knock. When he doesn't get a reply after waiting for a few seconds, he tries again and knocks a little louder this time, not sure whether Sherlock actually heard it the first time or not. He tries for a third time and actually has to grit his teeth against a sudden wave of worry that washes over him.

"Sherlock, please," he sighs, forehead resting against the door, "You're not fine, I know you're not fine just...talk to me about it. I know you're a sociopath and all that but you have feelings too and-," John cuts himself off then takes a breath again before forcing himself to say it, "And I'm here for you, Sherlock – I _am _here for you."

John steps back when he feels the door handle being pushed down, the door being pushed inwards in turn to reveal the face of a rather horrible looking Sherlock Holmes. His face looks slightly drawn inwards and John isn't sure if it's just the lighting or if Sherlock has lost weight from the lack of eating. And it's as though he hasn't slept at all because there are darkening circles under his eyes and all John can do is inwardly kick himself because he was so insensitive about his friend's feelings and he should have been more responsible but he wasn't because of course he's such a fucking idiot that it takes all that he can to refrain himself from bursting out into a fit of spontaneous apologies. All Sherlock does is stare at him and all he can do is stare back.

"Do you..." John finally plucks up the nerves to speak, swallowing as he gets stuck on the words, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I'd like to but I'm rather sure you'd have a rather disapproving reaction to what I might say," Sherlock says, shuffling a bit as he shifts the door so he can lean against the doorframe, "That and I'd rather not jeopardise our friendship, John."

"Doesn't mean you have to lock yourself in your room," John mumbles, looking away from his friend and down at the floor.

Sherlock merely chuckles, "I'm taking active precautions to ensure I don't do anything that's...not good. It's better if I stay away from you for a while longer before I'm sure I can tell myself that I'm not going to do anything that might make you uncomfortable."

That's all it takes to tell John that this is his fault, that he should have known sooner and that he should have been kinder about it instead of being so stupid. He's knocked out of his self loathing thoughts as the door shifts and Sherlock begins to disappear behind it. John wedges his foot between the door and the frame, stopping it from closing which earns him some sort of displeased noise from the Consulting Detective that sounds like a kind of cross between a whimper and a low moan. It takes all that John is not to compare him to an angry cat.

"We are going to talk about this, Sherlock," John says, shifting his foot slightly when he's sure Sherlock won't slam the door in his face, "I'll give you ten minutes to change or whatever, but if you take any longer then I'm just going to barge in. We can talk about it in the living room – I'll make tea."

And with that, John moves away from the door, pulling it closed on his own and letting Sherlock get on with it. He makes his way to the kitchen and turns the kettle on, pulling matching mugs down from out of the cupboard and setting them down on the countertop before dropping a teabag into each. By the time he's stirring the milk into each of them he hears the door to Sherlock's room open and the scuff of slippers against floorboards which tells him Sherlock probably just changed into a different set of pyjamas and didn't really get changed at all.

As he plucks the mugs up, Sherlock drops down to sit against the sofa looking positively unpleased with the situation and John can't blame him, not after what he's done himself. He passes Sherlock a mug and takes a seat next to him, a comfortable yet not overt distance between the two of them. Sherlock curls his fingers around the tea as John plucks up the courage to speak without toppling over words.

"Talk to me about it," he finally says, which he has to admit is rather lame.

"I don't know what you want me to say," Sherlock says in return, frowning as he takes a sip of the still too hot tea.

"I want you to tell me about the feelings I know you have but you want to ignore," John sighs, just curling his fingers around the mug in his hands.

Sherlock's face contorts slightly in displeasure and the change is almost unnoticeable but John suspects he's just getting more sensitive to knowing these kinds of things because, let's face it, Sherlock isn't the most expressive of people. There's a brief silence before Sherlock sighs openly and puts his mug down on the coffee table in front of him, leaning back into the chair. His mouth twitches as the Detective thinks about what he's actually going to say, silence spilling out as he finally opens it. John classes this as one of the few moments he has ever seen Sherlock at a loss of words.

A deep sigh is heaved from Sherlock's lungs as he finally finds words, "I'm a sociopath, John – I don't have feelings."

John has to grit his teeth against the sudden surge of emotion that hits him for a reason that is _entirely _unprecedented. When he speaks his voice is firm but not prying, "You're not a sociopath, Sherlock," he says and he earns a tilt of his flatmate's head – an indication that he's listening, "You do have feelings because right now you're hurting otherwise you wouldn't have locked yourself in your room for thirteen bloody days."

"You're annoyed at me," Sherlock replies swiftly, his voice surprisingly quiet as it borders on a low whisper.

"I'm not- Sherlock, I am not annoyed at you," John sighs, placing his cup down on the coffee table in the same motion that he wipes his spare hand over his face in before he wipes both his hands across the surface of the jeans that he's wearing. He suspects he should be appreciating the irony that he just spilt a little bit of tea on a table meant for coffee but the situation is a tad too serious for that.

"Observation would suggest otherwise, John," is the brisk reply that he earns, the absolute enigma that is sitting next to him shuffling slightly to sit straighter on the chair, "Since the beginning of the conversation your voice has increased at least ten decibels and your heart rate has increased. You've wiped your hands on your jeans, an indication that they're clammy so you're stressed. Stress has also caused you to become more impatient which shows that you're growing weary of how I'm acting. The only reasonable explanation is that you're annoyed at me."

"I'm worried about you, Sherlock; I'm hopelessly and utterly worried."

There's silence for a while and neither of them have the guts to speak up again. Instead, after about ten minutes of Sherlock not even making an effort to open up, John stands and takes his cup to the sink before pouring the now cold tea down the drain before placing his cup in the sink. He stands there for a while, silence still eloping the flat as he pulls in a few deep breaths and refuses the ignore the slightly stinging feeling that has swarmed over the surface of his eyes. Instead he tries to blink it away, running his hand over his eyes when that doesn't work.

He becomes aware that there's a pain curling inside of his chest and he knows he shouldn't be this worried about his friend. _He's probably just hit a bad spot_, he tells himself, _it's not your fault he can't talk about his feelings; you heard him, he doesn't have feelings to even talk about anyway_, he reassure himself, _it is absolutely not your fault that you completely disregarded his feelings because he doesn't have any feelings to disregard remember so you can't have hurt him at all if there's nothing to emotionally hurt_, he lies to himself.

It takes more effort than it should for him to push himself away from the sink, hands leaving the marble and metal surface that has kept him standing upright for the past five minutes that have steadily made his cheeks damp. He knows it shouldn't be him that is this bothered over this and he knows he should let it go but he can't help the way that it hurts when he sees his best friend like this. It's new and he doesn't like it.

"There's nothing that bothers me more than the fact that you can't...that you can't _talk _to me about this," he says as he finally builds up the courage to form words, "I don't care how much it 'jeopardises our friendship', I just want you to tell me what's wrong."

But, even as Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, John has turned away.


	3. Happy Mother's Day

**Whoops, updating too early again but it's nice to get early updates instead of always being late. Something bad happened tonight so I decided this would be the best way to vent it out instead of other things that I should REALLY have got done. Oh well, it's done now aha. I'll try and have the next chapter up by Saturday or something because these semi-regular updates are, I feel, a good thing.**

**Sorry for any typos! I just wrote this out and finished pretty much just now. Also, feel free to give me any ideas on where you want this to go because, at the moment, I'm stuck on Sherlock 'Creeper' Holmes, whoops. **

**As always, enjoy!**

**_Pairing: _Johnlock**

**_Disclaimer: _Characters aren't mine.**

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><p><em>18<em>_th__ March_

**Happy Mother's Day**

Yes, to all you mothers out there who read my blog (goodness knows why you would but there you go) happy You day! This blog entry is rather pointless other than to celebrate this day but it's all for a good cause. Seeing as I don't see my own mum much I might just go down the shops and buy Mrs Hudson some flowers – shh, don't tell her, it's a surprise!

I'll have a few more cases posted by tomorrow and please feel free to email me about any of your own things. I'd be happy to transfer them over to Sherlock considering it has been absolutely ages since we got a case and he's getting a little bit...bored. I think bored is the best word for it anyway. So yes, consult the consulting detective!

Have a nice day all you mothers and I'll be back to you later.

**4 comments**

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><p>Let's hope you're not trying to hit on them, John.<p>

**Bill Murray **18th March 09:15

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><p>why don't you give the flowers to sherlock? hed surely appreciate them more<p>

**theimprobabaleone** 18th March 09:16

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><p>Oh for goodness sake this is getting out of hand.<p>

**John Watson** 18th March 09:17

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><p>John, get me the revolver.<p>

**Sherlock Holmes** 18th March 09:18

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><p>The laptop closes with a resounding clack and is shoved down to the foot of John's bed as he pushes it away from himself like it burns. He grits his teeth and stares at the indignant object, hoping to convey to the electronical device some kind of message that he hasn't quite thought up yet and he doubts the poor laptop computer even knows how it has offended him anyway. It's his own fault for reading back on his own blog entries.<p>

That particular entry had been from yesterday, before he had worked up the courage to knock on Sherlock's door and cause the whole situation that he had caused. He thinks about calling Lestrade and asking him out to drink again but after the last time he gets the feeling that the Detective Inspector would rather take on a bored Sherlock with a gun than go out drinking with him again so soon.

So, instead, he checks the time to find that it's around six in the morning which is definitely an unholy time to wake up. He has a text from last night that he's yet to check and when he does it's from Sarah telling him that she'd rather be just friends. He doesn't even bother to text her back as he levers himself from his bed.

As he heads down stairs, he stops on the wooden steps half way down and listens. There's a soft violin concerto drifting throughout the building, quieter than Sherlock usually plays and John guesses that his flatmate has finally learnt what the reasonable volume to play the violin in the early hours of the morning – if at all – is. He breathes in deeply and quietly pushes open the side door entrance to the flat's kitchen as silently as his clumsy, sleepy fingers will allow him to. Alas, John had not accounted for knocking over test tubes and he silently curses the clatter as one of them (thankfully sturdy enough to survive the fall) drops onto the floor.

The solo violin concert stops abruptly and as John leans up from the floor, putting the empty test tube back to where he'd knocked it from on the table, Sherlock catches his eye and it's as though time has suddenly stopped. He swears that they stare at each other for at least five minutes without so much as breaking eye contact with one another before Sherlock lowers the violin slowly from his neck and places it in its case with a practiced care. John allows himself the liberty of breath while Sherlock's back is turned towards him.

"Good morning, John," are the three words from the rather withdrawn baritone that greet him.

"Morning, Sherlock," he sighs as he heads over to the fridge and grabs the milk. May as well make tea if he's going to be up this early. There's no point sleeping if he'll just wake up again and he's been fired from the clinic for all the time he has taken off to help Sherlock on his cases. Thank God the clients pay money.

Sherlock props his violin case up against the wall after he has clacked the clips on it closed and turns to face John, hands in his pockets as he watches his flatmate, who has turned his back towards him, make tea. As ever, Sherlock is the most observant of people and reads every little detail that he can from John's posture, tone of voice, what he has said and his movements as he fumbles with tea bags to drop them into two separate mugs. John winces because he knows Sherlock is watching him and he knows that Sherlock is deducing things from everything that he himself cannot see because that's what Sherlock does.

"You're nervous," is the first thing that Sherlock says and John pours water into the two mugs before he braces himself for the onslaught of deductions that follow, "You took away the 'good' from your reply to me, which from a psychological point of view could suggest that you're feeling a little low – which I think you're granted to and yet a little selfish for feeling after what happened yesterday."

Sherlock stops and John tenses as he feels his flatmate's gaze flitting up and down his body, "If we stay on the psychological track of thoughts it's easy to say that from the way you've put your back to face me now that you're trying to put a distance between us. And yet you're filling two mugs with tea. You're not expecting anyone so it's easy to tell that the tea is, in fact, for me. But what for?"

There's a slight tapping of shoes against wooden floor as Sherlock walks closer to John. He stops on the boundary between the main living space and the kitchen, "A peace offering? A sort of apology? It would be simple to say yes to both reasons but it's hardly ever simple with you, John – always the stubborn one that stayed in my life and refused to leave," Sherlock's voice has dropped to become quiet now and the consultant takes a breath, "The only one that has so much as bothered to ask me about my feelings; the only one to call me up on my self diagnosis of being a sociopath."

"Sherlock, stop it," John's voice cuts through the hushed speech of the consulting detective clearly and he has to put a hand over his mouth as he realises he's said it. He turns to face Sherlock, his expression steady and hard.

Sherlock returns his stare with a steady gaze, emotions carefully guarded as they have been for what John suspects is all of Sherlock's life, all of his life hiding his emotions. John suddenly feels sorry for the quite frankly weak man that stands before him before a baritone of voice cuts through his thoughts, "Yesterday you cried. Why?"

"Because I- Sherlock, because I'm worried," John stumbles over his words and watches as Sherlock's expression turns harder.

"And yet you turn and walk away as I'm about to open up to you. John, I hope you're aware that you're not making much sense; I am a detective but I apologise for my inability to know what you're saying without you saying it. I do believe people are meant to discuss these things," Sherlock's voice is slightly brutal but John can tell it's only because his friend is hurt – and that it's his fault, of course.

He runs a hand over the surface of his face and pulls a breath in before pushing it out in a sigh. He splashes milk into each of the cups and stirs them before picking them up and pushing one of them into Sherlock's hands as he himself leans against the kitchen table, careful not to knock over any test tubes that may lay there as he does so.

"Hit me with your emotions then, Sherlock. I promise I won't walk away this time, okay?" he says and for some reason Sherlock seems to look angry when the words leave his mouth.

"No, it's not okay, John. I can't trust you to listen and I most certainly can't trust you not to laugh. It's for the best if I keep them to myself for the mean time – I'm sure the feelings will pass," Sherlock says and John scoffs, earning a rather confused expression from the man stood in front of him.

"And you're the one who says I'm not making much sense," John rolls his eyes and sips his tea before placing it down on the table next to him, "'The feelings'? What do 'the feelings' make you feel, Sherlock? Because I promise I won't laugh and I promise I will listen."

Sherlock, to John's surprise, looks at him desperately before his gaze is directed to the floor and he scowls, his features turning downwards as his jaw clenches and his hair falls over his eyes. When words leave his mouth John can hardly hear them for how quiet they are and he has to strain to listen.

"I can't _trust_ you."

Everything goes silent and John is pretty sure he has stopped breathing and when he tries he can't seem to pull breath in at all. The feeling eventually subsides and he just stares at Sherlock whose face is hidden by hair, emotions guarded no matter how broken that voice had sounded; it takes all of John's pride to stop himself from wrapping his arms around his flatmate and holding him as close as he possibly can. Instead, John settles for moving a step forwards and resting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing it gently as he looks back up again and their eyes lock.

He forces a smile onto his face, a faint one that gives him the illusion of hope that his voice will stay steady when he tries to speak because what Sherlock said, what he'd said had hurt physically and not just emotionally and John isn't sure why. Squeezing Sherlock's shoulder one more time gently as a sort of comfort, he gathers himself and speaks.

"You can- you can trust me, Sherlock," he says, cursing as he yet again stumbles over his words, "I swear to you that I will be here for you and I'm not, I'm not going to tell anyone about anything you tell me. Not even Mycroft, I promise. I just...I wish you could tell me about what you're feelings and I'm sorry- I really am sorry for walking away yesterday it's just..."

"You were scared what I might say," Sherlock offers and John nods though it hurts to acknowledge the sentence and all of the subtext that it holds, about what Sherlock might say about any number of things last night. And John was scared of all of it, which is pretty stupid considering he was a soldier.

"Yeah," he says, forcing up another slight smile as he breaks eye contact with Sherlock, looking away as he hesitates before retracting his hand from Sherlock's shoulder and letting the limb drop limply down by his side.

"I'll tell you when I'm ready," is all Sherlock says and when John looks up it's as though the detective before him is considering something. He apparently discards whatever idea he has and turns away, which John is having absolutely none of.

He grabs Sherlock by his arm which could be generally and widely considered a bad action on his part when a lot of things are noted and taken into consideration. Sherlock tenses as John pulls him back to face him and then, as John's arms make their way around Sherlock's torso, he relaxes just slightly and leans almost unnoticeably into the embrace. It feels like the right thing to do even if John is going back on his own actions and making resisting hugging the consulting detective before completely useless. But maybe not because it's comfortable now and it feels just generally nice, if he's completely honest with himself. After a comfortable amount of time, John pulls back and nods, happier now as he lets go of Sherlock again.

"Okay," is all he says and the detective looks grateful as he saunters off and plucks his violin case up again.

A happy concerto fills the flat and, for the first time in just over two weeks, John feels comfortable around his best friend.

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><p>The next day, Lestrade visits and John honestly doesn't think he's been happier to see the man when Sherlock is given the case of a young man who has been found dead in the middle of a field, cuts in both his arms made after death and a rope burn around his neck which is been deemed non-fatal – needless to say, New Scotland Yard have no leads. Sherlock takes the case and grins over at John as the Detective Inspector leaves. John grins back and just wishes that he could see Sherlock like this all the time.<p>

There's a few moments of silence where they grin and are just generally giddy together before Sherlock stands with a graceful sweeping movement of his whole body (and John would be lying if he said he didn't envy his flatmate's dexterity) before he turns and holds his hand out to John. The grin is still plastered across his features and he waggles his fingers as he quirks an eyebrow upwards; John wishes they could be like this all the time.

"To the crime scene, my dear Watson?" Sherlock asks, a humorous tone present in his voice.

"But of course, my darling Holmes," John replies, grin spreading wider and he grasps Sherlock's hand to let the Consulting Detective help haul his body out of the chair.

They keep giggling for a while longer before John is suddenly aware of how close their faces are, how Sherlock's pupils have dilated, how he can feel Sherlock's pulse beating against his fingers wrapped around Sherlock's wrist and it's too much and he has to pull away. He doesn't so much catch the look of hurt in his flatmates eye but instead feels it, and feels the guilt for his hasty retreat from the brink. Instead of being honest, however, he smoothes it over with an entirely fake grin that he's sure Sherlock is far too smart to be fooled by and heads over to the door to grab his coat.

As he throws Sherlock's coat to him, the grin widens and it's all jokes and giggles again as he says questioningly, "Last one to the body is an Anderson?"

He hops down the stairs with Sherlock stumbling behind him as he tries to pull his coat on.

John wins and he feels a sense of pride at that.

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><p>As they examine the body and the crime scene three things become apparent to John: 1) This case was going to take longer than they expected, which wasn't exactly a bad thing. 2) Sherlock was touching him and looking at him more and more often. 3) John didn't know whether to accept the physical contact and act as though it was friendly or to move away whenever it happened to him.<p>

He's sure Greg would go off at him about Classical and Operant conditioning of behaviours and he's also sure that he wouldn't give two tosses what the Detective Inspector would have to say about any of that psychological drabble. John has heard enough about it to know that he's positively reinforcing Sherlock's behaviour merely by accepting it and not doing anything about it and it's just a bit worrying to think that the consulting detective may go further, may push the limits and boundaries of their, so far, mostly heterosexual and friendly relationship. He also knows enough about the psychology side of this to know that the Classical conditioning of the behaviour was probably down to either his blog entry of the first kiss.

He mostly knows that, to put it in basic terms, he's royally fucked.

Pulling the plastic glove off of his hand and running it down his face, John shoves his mind away from the train of thought he has been on for the last ten minutes before he looks up and calls Sherlock over. Sherlock crouches besides him, their shoulders touching as John goes through his medical assessment of the body. Indeed the deep gashes on the arms were made after the death of the victim, probably as a statement of some sort but as to what kind of statement he's not sure. The rope burn on his neck would be non-fatal indeed as the force applied would be rather minimal considering how thin and almost unnoticeable the burns were. The thing was that, although the burns were minimal, the windpipe of the victim had collapsed.

John suggests that the victim may have been strangled to death and turned the victim's head to the side, brushing away the shoulder length hair the victim had possessed and the bruises that had not been present before as they had not fully formed yet become revealed, scarce and dotted but the distinct definition of fingertips is there. Sherlock merely stares at him, eyes wide, before a grin passes across his features.

"John, you are _brilliant_," Sherlock says and John has to stand up because he knows _exactly _what was going to follow that statement and he doesn't want it but he does but he refuses to acknowledge it because, for God's sake, he's _not gay_. He looks away from Sherlock, pulling the other plastic medical glove off his hand.

"Not nearly as good as you," is all he says, his voice low and on the brink of becoming a whisper and he's suddenly self conscious about whether or not it sounded sexual or not. When he looks down at Sherlock, chancing a glance at the detective, he's turned away and John would have said that he was blushing if it weren't for the cold air nipping at their exposed skin.

John coughs awkwardly, curling a hand around the back of his neck as the wind starts to pick up. Sherlock fiddles around with the body and John looks up at the sky; it looks like it's going to rain, which is bloody awful in terms of quite a lot of things but he finds himself not caring so long as he can get home before the brunt of the weather of Great Britain comes bucketing down on top of himself and Sherlock in the form of icy cold droplets of water. He moves a hand, hesitating before he taps Sherlock on the shoulder to get him to look up at him.

"It's going to start raining soon," he says, keeping his voice steady, "If you've got everything you need we should start maybe heading home."

Sherlock glances at the body of the victim once more before nodding and standing up. He smiles at John and John thinks that maybe Sherlock is still proud from his deductions earlier which makes him pray all the more that he isn't kissed for picking up some tricks from Sherlock because he both doesn't deserve it and isn't gay and he's going to keep telling himself he isn't gay until his heart listens to him and stops reacting to the stimulus that is Sherlock Holmes.

They make the short walk back from the secluded area of the crime scene to the main road of the London streets in compete silence before they hail a cab and make their way back to 221b. In the cab, Sherlock sits too close to John, their shoulders pressing together once more and John's breath hitches in his throat and he tries to pretend it didn't happen. Sherlock pays and slips out after John evacuates the taxi like it's on fire. John is turning his key in the lock of the door and thinking up a fair few ways to make an excuse to go to bed at six in the evening when he hears a sigh behind him and the clearing of a throat.

"I think," the soft baritone is a surprise as it follows because the usually strong voice sounds far weaker than it should. There's a pause before it starts again, "I think I'd like to talk about it, John."

And that's where John abandons all thoughts of retreating to his room because he wanted Sherlock to talk and that's what he's going to get.


	4. Entry Deleted

**This is way too short and I should do something to make it longer but it has been over a week since I posted and something is better than nothing. I apologise for being later than usual but I just had loads of work tying me down and this week has been riddled with mock exams and personal problems, lovely. **

**I hope you enjoy this chapter nevertheless. This unbeta'd, non-reread, stupid and silly chapter that needs more construction and plot. Silly me. **

**As always:**

**_Pairing: _JohnLock**

**_Disclaimer: _BBC Sherlock characters do not belong to me.**

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><p><em>20<em>_th__ March_

**Entry Deleted**

*Content removed.*

**14 comments**

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><p>John, why is this entry deleted?<p>

**Harriet Watson **20th March 00:01

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><p>Because I finally found out how to delete them. I'll be deleting the other one today too.<p>

**John Watson **20th March 00:03

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><p>oh john is upset over people knowing about his secret boyfriend thats sweet<p>

**theimprobableone **20th March 00:04

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><p>Ohhh, Johnny-boy! You know what I said about getting too attached to your owneeeerrrrr.<p>

**Anonymous **20th March 00:05

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><p>Oh, I can see this turning into a flame war...<p>

**Bill Murray **20th March 00:07

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><p>So can I, Bill, so can I...<p>

**Mike Stamford **20th March 00:08

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><p>No, it's not going to turn into a flame war because I'm stopping it now. Comments are going to be disabled.<p>

**John Watson** 20th March 00:09

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><p>...Why can't I disable the comments?<p>

**John Watson **20th March 00:10

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><p>My, my, Doctor Watson.<p>

**Anonymous** 20th March 00:11

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><p>Oh, for God's sake. I've been through enough. Please do have enough decency to piss off.<p>

**John Watson** 20th March 00:12

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><p>Do please talk about it, Johnny-dear. I'd love to listen to you.<p>

**Anonymous **20th March 00:14

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><p>*Comment deleted*<p>

**theimprobableone** 20th March 00:15

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><p>Okay, I'm walking away. This is completely out of hand and that last comment was entirely unnecessary.<p>

**John Watson **20th March 00:16

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><p>The laptop lid all but slams shut and John pushes it across the table now, frowning at it and staring for a few minutes. He should have never posted that other blog entry. He should never have said anything about Sherlock kissing him. He should never have let Sherlock talk to him. He should have kept his stupid mouth shut and lived through it; it was one time and even though it wasn't really once, since last night, he could have survived because he didn't know he wanted it then. It used to be peaceful, then through all of the fighting and the chasing criminals and the bullet holes in the wall. He had liked it and it had been nice. Now it's all muddled up, like none of his life fits into the places. Like, for example, he is straight but apparently he wants to snog the world's only Consulting Detective. Everything is stupid and he's no exception.<p>

He has been staring at the laptop's closed lid for at least fifteen minutes before he senses Sherlock entering the room and analysing him. It's rather sad that he doesn't even need to look to know that it is Sherlock; that he can just know it's him by some change in the air. It almost worries him but he keeps his gaze steady on the laptop, almost glaring at it as though it's the computer gadget's fault. It could be, but he knows it's not. It's all John's fault, because John is such a moron that he—

"Evening, though technically since it's past midnight I do believe it's morning," says a voice and John knows who it is from the cocky dialogue and the smooth baritone that almost turns him to jelly but he doesn't give it any sign that he does. A sigh comes from the direction of the voice and shoeless feet pad across the wooden floor of their apartment to the desk that John is sat at. Hands hesitate before they rest on his shoulders and John feels himself tense before he can stop it, muscles tightening all around his body at such simple contact. It makes him feel weak.

"I'm sorry, about...yes," apologies always did sound so strange coming from Sherlock and this isn't an exception to the rule. The words almost tumble heavily from the detective's mouth, so foreign upon his mind and lips that John would feel honoured if it were under any other circumstance. It makes him feel sick.

"No," he says, voice cracking so he swallows and wets his lips, forcing himself to relax even though he keeps his eyes trained on the laptop like it will pounce at him, "No it was my fault, I asked you to talk to me about it and you did. You were only doing what I asked."

"John, I practically jumped on you..." Sherlock says and John winces, pulling his shoulders away from Sherlock's slender fingers and subtle hands. His elbows rest on the table and his face makes its way into his hand, a sigh pushing up through his body. As he's immersed in his thoughts he can just make out Sherlock saying something about tea.

While it's true that Sherlock had pretty much jumped on him, John had initiated the first move.

* * *

><p>After Sherlock's want to talk, John had greeted it with open arms as the first of the rain began to fall from the skies. He finally managed to unlock and push the door open, slipping his coat off as he stepped inside and Sherlock followed closely after him, coat still in place. They both headed upstairs and, as the British gentlemen they were, they took tea and resigned to the plush leather couch where John had coaxed Sherlock to talk. After a few false starts and long silences, they had finally got the ball rolling.<p>

"I've no doubt you've realised my...closeness as of late," Sherlock said, raising his cup to his mouth to take a sip of the cooling tea, "It's hardly ignorable considering I've practically been brushing shoulders with you at every chance I get. I feel I should offer my apologies if it seems brash, but I won't because wanting contact with someone like you is should hardly be a thing of surprise."

Sherlock sighed, setting his cup down on the table in front of them with a soft clink. John merely sat, sipping at his tea, patiently waiting for this enigma of a man to continue, to tell him all of his secrets (or at least some) because they were so very interesting. And he did, and they were exactly what John knew he would hear. But that didn't mean he wanted to hear them.

"I'm afraid that during out time of, shall we say, 'bonding' I have become rather attached to you, far more than I should ever have allowed myself to become. This is entirely my fault and I hardly want you to take blame for my attraction to you but I feel it's highly unprecedented of me to be anything but attracted to you," Sherlock faltered before his voice dropped, "You make me feel special, so to say simply."

"I'm not gay," is all John said and all of the softness in Sherlock had left turned hard.

"Oh, lay off of it John. You don't have to be gay to be attracted to another man. You can be entirely straight and find just one person in the whole of the same sex as you worth wasting your time over in the same way you pine over women who will just leave you in the end because I exist," Sherlock was completely sour, like a teenage girl taking a break-up badly, "I'm far more interesting than all of these women that you date, I'm far more intelligent and you're around me far more than you want to spend around them. You're not even happy with them! You're happy with me! It is entirely beyond my understanding why you would want to spend your time around a person you hate."

"Because of the sex, Sherlock," John said, putting his cup on the table next to Sherlock's. The Consulting Detective himself stood up, slipping swiftly into the space between John's knees and the table, towering over his shorter companion. John looked up at him, an eyebrow quirking curiously at the action.

"Oh yes. The _sex_. How could I ever forget about the _sex_; John Hamish Watson, yet another man run by the animalistic urge to copulate," Sherlock leant forwards, hands pressing against John's shoulders and pushing his back up against the cushions of the sofa. Their noses were so close that they were almost touching and John could feel Sherlock's breath hot against his face. When Sherlock spoke again his voice was low and close to a growl, "You're not even giving me a _chance_."

John sat there and Sherlock stood there, both staring at each other for a long time before John gathered his wits, gathered enough guts to be able to speak back to Sherlock in the same way he was being spoken to.

"Not giving you a chance?" he asked, hands raising to press against Sherlock's chest, not pushing him away yet but there just in case he needed to do so, "You want to see me give you a chance when you're practically shoving your face into mine? Okay then, Sherlock," John scowled, hands curling into the fabric of Sherlock's lapels, pulling him forwards as his voice dropped, "This is me- giving you a chance."

And with that, John had done the stupidest thing he could have done at that moment in time; John had kissed Sherlock. At first it was just the steady press of mouth against mouth, John's eyes squeezed closed as he felt Sherlock's confused gaze stare unfocused at his eyelids. Then the detective had relaxed just slightly, hands easing slightly on John's shoulders as they were now being used to keep the detective upright. However, when Sherlock tried to coax John with a simple and almost unnoticeable move of his lips, John pulled away and stared up at Sherlock. That was when he had started feeling sick at himself, more than anything. Sick because of what he'd just done. Sick because of what he wanted to do. Sick because he felt he needed it more than anything.

Except then Sherlock had frowned, unsatisfied with a simple kiss as he all but crawled onto John's lap, knees straddling the ex-army doctor's thighs as he leant down for another kiss. But John had protested, squirming, and Sherlock had moved back and withdrawn. John had felt worse for this because he had just pushed something he wanted but wouldn't allow himself to have away when he wanted, needed, it the most.

And that left them in their current predicament.

* * *

><p>A cup is placed in front of him and Sherlock pulls up a chair before asking him what's wrong, why he had been staring at the laptop, why he was so tense. There are so many questions bouncing around in John's head along with the ones that he's been asked; why did you push him away, why would you push him away, why are you so stupid. All of the questions are, of course, unanswerable and John doesn't expect himself to be able to answer them any time soon. Instead, he sips the tea and sets his mouth into a steady frown. He doesn't notice until he flicks his gaze over to Sherlock for a glance that his eyes had been trained on the laptop for the whole time.<p>

They look at each other for a few minutes before Sherlock opens his mouth as though to say something before it closes again, like he has thought better of it. So John feels he should be the one to start the conversation as he turns back to look at the laptop's closed lid, staring at it intently. After several more minutes for all but glaring at the device, he finishes thinking over whatever he is considering and places his tea on the desk. When he speaks he makes sure his voice is steady and quiet but loud enough to be heard easily by Sherlock.

"I think I'd like to try."

This has the desired effect of shock as Sherlock makes a slight gargling noise mid tea slurp, covering it up by swallowing swiftly afterwards with a slight wince. As he steadies his eyes on John's face, John is staring right back at him and Sherlock actually has the gall to smile a little – it's just the tiniest quirk of his lips but it's still there and John is probably the only one who can see it.

"That would be just wonderful, John," he smiles properly now, though it's still soft and small and he takes another sip of tea before he speaks again, "Are there any rules you would like to put down for this relationship?"

John considers for a moment, "Only two. No kissing at crime scenes or in public and no...sex until I think I'm ready," he says, nonchalant.

"Both of those rules I am happy to oblige to," Sherlock smiles more and John can't help comparing him to a small child on Christmas day when he gets the one thing he really wants. John reckons the one thing Sherlock ever wanted was affection but he never got it because his brother and he didn't get along and his mother was on his brother's side, or so he has gathered from the amount of time he seems to have spent around the two Holmes'.

"I'm happy to sleep in the same bed though, it seems..." he's lost when he tries to think of a word.

"Nice, cosy, warm, endearing, intimate, romantic," Sherlock reels off the offers of his adjectives.

"Mm," John nods, sipping his tea again, "Speaking of sleeping, I should be knocking off; it's going on one and we've got to be down at St. Bart's tomorrow for the actual analysis of the body and all of that useless stuff."

John huffs and finishes off his tea, standing up to stroll over to the sink to dump his cup into it. When he turns, Sherlock his behind him and, in an entirely innocent motion, the Consulting Detective places his own cup into the sink.

"Ah, yes. And I haven't slept for about three days. I do believe we should head to bed," Sherlock coughs and gives John a reassuring push towards his bedroom, following closely behind and John finally understands what the detective has been hinting at even though when John had said it he hadn't meant for it to be taken as an immediate offer. Although, this _is_ Sherlock Holmes and he has never heard of it that Sherlock may even consider playing by the rules if they stood between him and something he wanted.

John merely sighs and shakes his head, shuffling to his room, suddenly only just aware of exactly how exhausted he feels as he collapses on the mattress of his bed. He waves Sherlock in when he stands awkwardly at the door as though unsure if he's really allowed to come into the room or not. However, after John's signal, he is entirely happy to slip into the room and next to John in the bed. John moves slightly to one side so they're positioned as far away from each other on opposites sides as the bed will allow.

However, John – for all of the science that he took – does not remember one simple law that applies to people as well as magnets and he may have done well to remember that then and there.

Opposites attract and there's nothing he can do to stop that.


	5. Author'sNote: Hiatus

******Ah, hello my brilliant readers!**

**Now, this isn't a new chapter and I'm terribly sorry that I don't have one to update this with. I'm also very sorry to say that I'm going to have to stick this fanfiction on hiatus for a couple of weeks over the Easter Holiday but I will try to update as soon as possible after that. I have to do this because of various reasons such as having to go into school quite a bit for revision sessions and having to prepare for exams. I've also got another fanfiction project I'm attempting to actually do well with an actual plot (which I'm not used to but am trying to work with).**

**So! I'm really very sorry and I hope to get back to this as soon as possible. **

**- Sociopath in the TARDIS**


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